


Bucharest

by Claudia_flies



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes in Bucharest, Food, Gen, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Tumblr: micromarvel, micromarvel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 08:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11376831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claudia_flies/pseuds/Claudia_flies
Summary: In Bucharest Bucky's body changes.





	Bucharest

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ficlet on Tumblr ages ago and realized I forgot to post it here.
> 
> For micromarvel 'freedom is what you do with what's been done to you'

 

He wanders for a long time after D.C., memories coming and going in strange places. The catch of headlights in the window of the Greyhound bus suddenly reminding him the glint of a shell casing in Dallas. The icy wind on the Atlantic crossing reminding him of Sweden in the winter. It was warmer than Siberia, the windows filled with light, maybe it had been near Christmas.

He tries to not think of the man. The brochure of the exhibit shoved between the pages of his notebook, shaky handwriting like he’s almost trying to learn how to write all over again.

He crisscrosses around Europe. The passportless travel easy now between the countries. In the back of a bus or squashed in a train between backpacking students. Hitchhiking across rural Spain.

He speaks most of the languages, works on farms and steals from ATMs with ease.

Time passes. To him it’s irrelevant.

He ends up in Romania. Body tired and worn and sick. He steals enough to get an apartment. Not in the worst part of town, but it’s close. The apartment is small and the windows steam up when he heats up the watery canned soup for the first time.

On a late evening, he helps an old woman carry up her shopping bags. She’s hunched over, her face lined with wrinkles. Her eyes are familiar, they reflect something that he feels in himself. Someone who has seen horrors, has chosen to live nonetheless.

She clucks her tongue at him and invites him to eat. The soup is moorish, sour. _Ciorbă de pui_ , she says. It sits heavy in his belly so unlike the shakes he has been consuming, so unlike anything he remembers.

He eats all of it. Eats more when she gives him a second helping, smacking her lips, pleased.

From then on she invites him to eat every week. She makes heavy stews and stuffed vegetables. Meats and more heavy soups.

He finds little restaurants near building sites and railway stations. Places meant for blue-collar workers with plastic table covers and rickety chairs. He learns the names of things, things that he never had reason to know in the before.

 _Cârnați_ and _ciulama de vițel_ and _sarmale_. Learns where the best _ghiveci cǎlugăresc_ can be found. He savors those words the same way he savors the foods.

He’s sick at first, his stomach strained and tight every time he eats. He’s grateful for the little toilet in his apartment, and for the shower that one time.

His body changes, his legs, and shoulders and even his waist thicken up, becoming bulky and hard. His body diverting the sudden influx of calories to build him up, so unlike what a normal human would.

He gets hired by a construction firm, paid under the table. The men working there nodding and grunting at him like he is one of them over the lunch bowls of _pârjoale_.

It takes him maybe six months to discover _papanași_ , or anything sweet really. But once he does he is insatiable, eating dozens in one go until he feels sick and his stomach domed out as he lies on his bed. He loves _amandine_ and _cornulețe_ with all the variety of fillings, and _halva_ , the way it crumbles in his mouth.

He doesn’t know if he liked sweet things in the before. The man in red, white and blue would know. Steve would know, but in the end, he doesn’t care right now. Not now when his fingers are sticky with syrup, sweetness melting on his tongue.

His neighbor pats his arm, his thick shoulders in approval. Ladles more _fasole batută_ on his plate, heaps it with fried onions. Humming under her breath for a job well done.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Bucharest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12096639) by [Claudia_flies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claudia_flies/pseuds/Claudia_flies), [thatsmysecret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsmysecret/pseuds/thatsmysecret)




End file.
